I just spent ninety minutes getting from Santa Monica to Echo Park. Second attempt to find a place I’ve been before = second episode of hysterical crying.
I don’t blame LA for this. LA is just a smidge tidge unforgiving, but really pretty good with signage and gridlike layout. Yes, traffic is heavy, but that is no crime or surprise.
The problem I think lies in believing I know where I’m going. See, the first time I try to go somewhere, I am very detailed in getting directions and the street address and all the normal, intelligent things people do when trying to find a place.
The second time, I get general directions and wing it.
Rong, rong, rong. So rong.
Also, Google text doesn’t work here for some reason. This move has really exposed my deep-seated, passionate attachment to the Internet.
Fortunately I have at least one patient friend with a soothing voice. And an iPhone.
Thus I survived getting home at all.
And I took some ibuprofen, so my hysterical crying headache is rapidly subsiding.
I feel well now, so I only bring this up in case by the end of the month I have locked myself in my apartment, a maddened agoraphobe with Kleenex boxes for shoes.
